Kodachrome

It was the summer of 1973 and the weather was as perfect as I can ever remember. My sister and I spent the summer playing in our Southern California backyard. We played cowboys and Indians with cowboy and Indian dolls and their horses. The toys had moveable parts and our imaginations would keep us occupied for hours upon end riding through the Old West along the Outlaw Trail. The benches belonging to patio sets served as horses—we would stack them, one upon the other, and pretend to be Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid riding to our escape to the Hole in the Wall. We ran through the lawn sprinkler that my mother set out to beat the summer heat. I remember Paul Simon on the radio singing “Kodachrome” and running to the ice cream truck for a Big Stick popsicle. There is an easiness and laziness during summertime, and more than anything else, I remember the sheer joy of being alive that summer. Awakening to hear the radio announce, “…there’s another hot day in store for the Southland today…”, the happiness of petting my cat, family barbeques in the backyard and falling asleep listening to the hum of the fans and the feel of the breeze sweep over my body.

It has always pleased me that my birthday occurs during the glorious summertime and I distinctly remember the feeling of that July 3 in 1973. I even remember the cutoff shorts, tee shirt and Maui style flip-flops I wore that day. It was a feeling of comfort and contentment the likes of which I have felt only sporadically since that summer. My mother and grandmother took me out to lunch to Bob’s Big Boy Diner and had a cheeseburger and a cherry coke. Everyone in the diner sang happy birthday to me and I felt special and happy.

It was at the end of the summer of 1973 that I remember feeling child-like and innocent for the last time. Although I was barely eleven years old, my mother chose this time of my life to confide in me about the difficulties of being a single parent, the struggles of divorce and the strife of everyday life. I wondered why she chose to reveal the details of her life to me despite the fact that my sister was older. In retrospect, I believe that she recognized the early bloom of inner strength that would serve me well throughout my lifetime. This event was monumental in many ways, with ramifications for several areas of my life. Naturally, the dynamics of the relationship with my mother were forever changed, but it also caused difficulties between my sister and I that have taken a lifetime to repair. Even at the time, I was acutely aware that the innocence of childhood was lost to me—the simple enjoyment of cowboys and Indians and popsicles was gone forever.

This loss of innocence also affected my attitude toward and my experience in school. I was always a good student and learning came easily to me. However, after the summer of 1973, school became more than a place to learn for me. It also served to fill the void created by the loss of my childhood. School was a sanctuary of sorts; a place where I need not think about the difficulties of maintaining a household on a limited budget or how to find an affordable attorney to collect thirteen years of unpaid child support. I reveled in the sheer joy of being around other kids and sharing our girlish secrets. I wondered if that certain boy would sit next to me at lunch again rather than if there was enough money left to purchase this week’s groceries. At school, I could simply be a kid, the same as any other. While many students were finding ways to look older, act older and play at being adult, I happily put all such thoughts away and enjoyed going to school. Each day I could pretend that I knew nothing about the difficulties of life. I did not feel guilty that I required expensive eyeglasses nor did I worry about how to pay for them.

My desire to escape the pressures of the adult world eventually led to a genuine interest in excelling in education and the desire for academic success. In junior high school, I found myself enjoying school in a new way; attending honors classes, writing for the school newspaper and immersing myself in academics. One day in English class the teacher, Mrs. Wald, asked me a question regarding "Flowers for Algernon,” the book the class was reading. After listening to my answer, Mrs. Wald asked me to stay after class. Certain I was in trouble, I tried to forget to remain after class, but Mrs. Wald was adamant. In a pleasant voice that appeared at odds with her stern expression, she told me that I was smart and should go to college. I mentioned that college was not an option, as my mother could never afford to send any of her children to college. While I had realized that the best way to escape the cycle of poverty I was living in was a college education, I never thought I would be able to attend college. In my neighborhood, girls of poor families did not attend college. Immediately after high school graduation, they started working or were married. I envisioned a lifetime as a bank teller and a wife, but certainly could not imagine a future that included a college education. Mrs. Wald was so passionate in her opinion that I deserved a college education that I began to believe in the possibility of obtaining one. In my first year of high school, I learned about scholarships, community college and other options that were available, even for economically disadvantaged students. From that moment on, I never lost the belief in my ability to make it college nor the words and the woman who inspired them.

The summer of 1973 remains a significant marker in my life. It represents both the carefree joy of childhood and the promise of the future that resulted from the loss of the same childhood. In retrospect, it seems that I made lemonade from a pile of lemons, though at the time I was merely trying to survive as best as I could; trying to cling to a part of childhood that I was not ready to lose.

A Catholic School Girl...Again

Now that I have some spare time I have been writing down some of the ideas rolling around in my head. Here is the beginning of the 1st:

I hate orientations. They are boring and always seem to be geared towards people with miniscule IQs. Although, this was my first job in the teaching profession, it was not my first job, and the thought of listening to some blowhole explain the obvious to me for 8 hours made me want to shove toothpicks under my fingernails—or vote republican—I am not sure which would be more painful. Why couldn’t I just start with my students? Kids, I loved. I often felt like a mother to a 100 or so teenagers and enjoyed every minute of it. I struggled to keep my eyes open while the human resources manager for the Saint Raymond Catholic Church and School in Seattle droned on about payroll, school rules, teacher responsibilities, and the like. There was no coffee in the small room where the orientation was held. How did they expect people to pay attention at boring orientations without providing the vital element of coffee? I mentally kicked myself in the butt for passing the several Starbucks located between my house and St. Raymond’s. It was the end of summer and the pumpkin spice latte had just arrived on the menu. Did the human resources manager just say “double tall soy?” I shook my head to clear my mind of coffee flavored dreams.

As the man droned on about paperwork and schedules, I let myself wonder what I was doing here at a catholic school. I was not a practicing catholic—not for about 10 years. Though I was raised in the Catholic Church being baptized, making my First Communion and Confirmation, even receiving my undergraduate degree in biology from a Jesuit University, I gave up the Catholic Church over 10 years ago for the practice of an ancient Irish Pagan tradition. My mother would have disowned me if she had not died of breast cancer 4 years prior. As it was, my aunt and cousin were so worried for my eternal soul that they prayed daily for my return to the church. I made a mental note to call them and tell them of my new job—perhaps that would ease some of their worry. Yet here I was a teacher at a catholic school. Would the principal, a nun, think me a spy for the “other team” if she found out I was not a practicing catholic?

I was surprised when the school approached me the previous spring about teaching math and science at their high school. As a teacher, the mission of their mathematics department—mathematics belongs to everyone—appealed to me, but I also wanted to teach at a well-rounded school. One that had a full fine arts program: drama, music, choir, and a marching band; a high school was not a high school without a marching band. It pleased me that during these tough economic times, St. Raymond’s refused to make budget cuts to their arts program and their band was rocking it at every football game, basketball game and parade.

Human Resources manager-guy announced it was break time. At last...he was my new hero. I leapt from my seat to search for the coffee pot or coffee machine—isn’t each building in Seattle required to have at minimum one source of coffee? I imagined myself like a vampire thirsting for her next victim. Rounding a corner in the main office, I encountered the scent of my victim. I followed the trail until I spied my prey—a shiny stainless steel monster perched on the counter and filling the room with the delicious aroma of java. Filling a cup, I breathed in the aroma of the dark brew and took a sip. I could not stop the smile that spread across my face at the deep and rich flavor of the coffee. Someone here knew how to make a proper cup of coffee.

“First cup of the day?” I was jolted by the sound of his voice and turned to look at the man sitting at one of the several round tables in what I now noticed must be a staff lounge.

“Yes,” I said, my euphoria over the taste of the coffee evident in my voice.

at the end

Today I am at the end of the education program. The program was intense and required such a great amount of my time that I thought of little else. Now I am a teacher and finally have the graduate degree has been escaping me for so very long. Well, onward from here...